


a warrior and a gentleman.

by EdgarAllenPoet



Series: DnD 101 (my TAZ graduation fics) [1]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Just generic misunderstanidng, Nothing violent or outright malicious, Taz Graduation, Trans Character, Trans Fitzroy, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:10:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21600553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgarAllenPoet/pseuds/EdgarAllenPoet
Summary: It had been a poorly kept secret that the Maplecourts were raising a barbarian.It had become a poorly kept secret that the daughter they'd raised became a strapping young man.It was no longer a secret that the Mapelcourts raised a disappointment.
Series: DnD 101 (my TAZ graduation fics) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1556788
Comments: 18
Kudos: 242





	a warrior and a gentleman.

**Author's Note:**

> Here are my Sir Fitzroy headcanons--
> 
> He's a fifth year senior tossed back to the wolves in a group of freshmen. He was almost, very nearly a knight. Before Knight School he was a party kid who got himself into all kinds of trouble and now works to actively counter that reputation. He holds himself to impossible standards and strains to maintain unshakeable control. He is not very good at it. He's a brat, raised by a well off family with a certain standard for things, easily frustrated but carefully guarded. He WILL speak to the manager, thank you. 
> 
> He is a barbarian, and that combined with his magic ruined his life. He hates his anger as much as he hates his magic, and if he could be rid of all of it he WOULD immediately. He keeps a stranglehold on his temper and is petrified of loosening it.
> 
> He is (at least right now) definitely a loser. He is doing his fucking best.

The Maplecourts grow magic the way elves grow hair.

It comes naturally, growing strong and smooth, cascading over them in rivers rather than waterfalls. These are the things Sir Fitzroy's mother told him when he was little, that the Maplecourts regarded their magic as precious and sacred ( _ the same way elves regard their children, _ she'd say, tapping him gently on the tip of his nose). She'd wrangle his unruly curls into tight,  _ tight _ braids, bound in place with ribbons, and she'd ask every morning that he kept them intact until dinner. He’d never managed that, not once, until he was old enough to chop them off at the base in a fit of rage and tears.

The Maplecourts tended their magic the way others tended gardens, the way elves tended their hair, trimming and nurturing and watching it bloom. It was a matter of status, of reputation, of showing you belonged and you were capable. Magic, hair, gardens. In the circles Sir Fitzroy's parents entertained, it was all the same.  _ The Maplecourts had a green thumb for magic, always had and always would, _ they say. 

So when Sir Fitzroy's didn't come, they told him to **wait.** _Patience,_ they said, so he brooded. When it still didn't come, they told him to **try.** _Perseverance,_ they said, and he struggled. When it didn't come finally, they told him to **breathe**. _Dignity_ , they said, and he signed himself up for Knight training. 

Because Sir Fitzroy and his mother-- for all that he loved her dearly-- were polar opposites. Control was an out of reach concept, and he'd never fit correctly into the roles that were assigned to him. The day he cut his hair was the day he came out with it, screaming through his tears that braids and ribbons were all fine and good, but that nobody saw him as a boy that way. 

_ "Of course they don't," _ his mother said, failing to soothe.  _ "You're not one, darling."  _

It had been a poorly kept secret that the Maplecourts were raising a barbarian, and it had become a poorly kept secret that the daughter they'd raised became a strapping young man. He wore his hair cropped and his eyebrows knitted, held himself tall and clenched his fists tight. He pretended and pretended and  _ pretended _ to fit into roles that hadn't ever been given to him in the first place. 

Raised a sorcerer and a lady, grown a warrior and a gentleman. 

Spiraling out of control as he tried to drown his insecurities with whatever he could get his hands on. 

Furious at the world and willing to fight anything that looked at him twice, just to express that rage, flying fists first into the world.

It was no longer a secret that the Mapelcourts had raised a disappointment. They emphasized self-control and cautiousness in the lectures they forced upon him, sitting him down when he stumbled through the front door half-drunk in the twilight. 

_ Discipline, _ they told him, and he figured it was worth a shot. He signed himself up for Knight school and prayed that would solve something. 

It didn't help that Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt had always been small for his age. Being a string bean of a child didn't matter when magic powers were (thought to be) eminent, though it made for a rather silly barbarian. The width of one's shoulders wasn't considered when trying on gowns the way it was when trying on armor. Delicate hands weren't meant to hold swords.

Were he full elf it wouldn't have been a problem-- elves had slight frames and softly glowing features, they wore their hair long and glamourous (like magic, like gardens), and their gender was a second thought to their heritage, to their ethereal nature, to their innate magic. But he wasn't a full elf, was betrayed by his father's human nature, was betrayed by the very namesake he was expected to live up to. 

The Maplecourts were proud humans, powerful sorcerers, and perfect in their obedience to their name. 

Sir Fitzroy had never been any of those things, never properly. 

Knight school was good for him, though. Clyde Nite's Night Knight School forced him through challenges he couldn't begin to imagine himself, beat a sense of discipline into him so thoroughly that even the thought of stepping out of line left him wincing. It introduced to him-- for the first time ever-- goals that were achievable. We're mapped out for him. Instructions he knew how to follow: 

_ Go here, do this. Stand like so.  _ Hold your posture.  _ The bend of an elbow, the placement of feet on the ground from one stance to another.  _ Dance with it. _ Be light as air. Make yourself  _ unmoveable. _ The grip of a hilt and laser focus of eyes on a target. Drill it again, and again, and again. Memorize these virtues, now _ live by them.  _ List them. Now extrapolate. Again, Squire. Put confidence in your voice. Speak with a purpose.  _ Hold. Your. Posture.

Most importantly, though, Fitzroy was finally 'Sir.' 

It didn't matter that all students could earn this title eventually-- male, female, or otherwise. The word rang through his ears and hummed on his tongue the way nothing ever had before.  _ Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt.  _ An achievable goal. A role that made sense. 

It didn't matter that there were strong girls in his cohort-- Sir Fitzroy had always known strong women existed. He knew that he could be strong and be a girl and be just as good. There'd been girls he loved in childhood, women he admired as role-models. There were students at Clyde's who wore breastplates that curved instead of binding their flesh flat under men's armor. Sir Fitzroy knew he didn't have to be a man to be strong, but that didn't manage to make him a woman, regardless of his mother's concern and pleading.

Fitzroy was finally 'Sir.' He was a knight. He was honorable. For the first time in his life, it didn't matter that his magic had never developed, that he wasn't fulfilling his destiny as a Maplecourt. 

Sir Fitzroy was finally not a disappointment.

But of course, the Maplecourts grow magic the way elves grow hair, and Sir Fitzroy’s hair grew thick and unruly.

His magic developed sporadically and with unanticipated power. He lost the control he'd been wrestling with his entire life. Control over his appearance, over his titles. Control over the rage that bloomed in the absence of magic, the stares of strangers and colleagues, the disappointment of his family. Control over himself fully and entirely, as Knighthood would require. 

He fought for it, clung to it, found a handhold and held on tight. 

But he was grasping at straws, and in seconds he'd lost everything he'd taken years to work towards.

Long, long ago they'd told him about patience, and perseverance, and discipline. Sir Fitzroy forgot all of these as he gave into the collapse and let go, surrendering all control, and when he'd come to in the aftermath it had been with a firm hand on the shoulder walking him to the edge of campus and a request to never come back. 

It had all been so quick, so frantic and immediate, that they'd forgotten to strip his title off of him. So while he was moving back home-- where he was still misunderstood, misspoken of, and ultimately misinterpreted-- he still had that with him. He was grasping at straws, and he'd clutch tight to any that still belonged to him. 

He was Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt, and he was expected to be perfect, though the only thing he'd ever gotten good at was proving he was worthy of existing. 

_ Just wait until he became a hero _ , he thought to himself, slipping his application into the mail. 

The Maplecourts grow magic the way elves grow hair. On the first day of school, Sir Fitzroy took to his with scissors and the grace of a well-paid gardener. Efficient and controlled, he was a knight after all. A Maplecourt. In this, at least, he had total control.

**Author's Note:**

> Am I feeling a little tender about being consistently perceived as a girl? Am I a little pissed about people ignoring my identity? Am I filled with a bit of rage? Yes, of course, Thanksgiving is hard. 
> 
> Am I guiltlessly projecting onto this character? You fucking know that I am. 
> 
> However, I am also very much enamored with this character. This might age poorly, but I wanted to write SOMETHING in this universe and with this boy. 
> 
> Let me know what you think?


End file.
